


accidental arson as a precursor to romance

by kattyshack



Series: snowflakes [6]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, First Kiss, Fluff, Romance, Short & Sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-14
Updated: 2017-10-14
Packaged: 2019-01-17 07:35:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12360753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kattyshack/pseuds/kattyshack
Summary: prompt fill (@thewolfbit): college au: “it’s 3am, in the dead of winter, some motherfucker pulled/set off the fire alarm and i am being very vocal about how i’m gonna make that fucker pay.”





	accidental arson as a precursor to romance

“I’m going to kill you.”

Jon has the decency to look sheepish, if a bit offended. Sansa supposes the expression is, ultimately, befuddled, which is further evidenced when he says, “In fairness, I did warn them that the stove was under maintenance. It’s not my fault they didn’t listen. Really, I’m only guilty by association.”

Sansa huffs, her annoyance only exacerbated by Jon’s flimsy excuse. Of course, whenever Grenn and Pyp get some notion in their heads — especially when that notion involves food — there was no talking them out of it. If they wanted to cook a lasagna in the dorm’s virtually out-of-order basement kitchen at three in the morning then, by _god_ , they were going to do it.

The thing had gone up in flames in a record eight and a half minutes, and Sansa had been roused from sleep by the screeching of the fire alarm in the corridor. She hadn’t even had time to scrounge up a jacket and a pair of shoes before the resident assistant was ushering everyone out, because “This is not a drill, people, out out OUT!”

Cold as it is outside in the mid-December north, Sansa would have preferred to stay as close to the smoking building as possible, unadvisable as the inclination is. The fire had been contained so that the kitchen was the only real victim, but the fire department was still making them wait to reenter. 

“Fine,” Sansa decides, hugging her middle in a failed attempt to stave off the cold biting through her thin nightshirt. “I’m going to kill _them_.”

Jon chuckles. He spares a glance at his accidental arsonist friends, who’ve wrangled half a dozen others into joining them for a snowball fight.

Sansa uses his distraction to her advantage, studying him beneath the soft glow of the streetlamp. If she’s going to freeze to death, at least she can say she chucked her inhibitions and checked out Jon Snow with reckless abandon before the sweet embrace of death took her.

He’s _handsome_ , okay? And sweet and thoughtful, and maybe there’s a swarm of butterflies in her ribcage whenever he slants a look her way. So sue her. Whatever. The encroaching pneumonia is bound to kill her, anyway.

They’re seated on one of the outdoor tables, feet on the bench and snow flurries dancing peacefully around them. The wind tugs at Jon’s curls and he pushes his glasses up his nose, the lenses fogging momentarily when he sighs.

“I _am_ sorry,” he says again, for he’d been apologizing since Sansa accosted him several minutes ago. He turns back to her with a grin on his chapped lips. “They’re idiots. It’s just that they’re unstoppable idiots.”

“Make sure that goes in my obituary,” Sansa requests, her dry humor somewhat sullied when her teeth start to chatter. “‘Killed by an unforeseen exposure to unstoppable idiots.’”

That pulls another chuckle from Jon. He slides an arm around her shoulders and pulls her against him. Sansa feels his warmth immediately, and snuggles into his side with a contented little hum. Jon jerks a bit when his hand touches her bare arm.

“Christ, you’re freezing.”

 _“I know.”_ Sansa pouts, her hum turning to a whine when she wriggles her ice-chip toes. “I’m not even wearing shoes.”

“For fuck’s sake, Sansa,” Jon mutters.

Before she can defend herself, he’s taken her behind the knees and pulled her legs into his lap. One arm stays around her waist to keep her close, and his other hand rubs her feet to get some feeling back into them. It’s not the most comfortable position, but it is a good deal warmer and Jon smells good, so Sansa will happily die like this if that’s to be her fate.

“So chivalrous,” Sansa teases when Jon strips off his hoodie and bundles her in it. Now she can _really_ smell him, all pine and mint and smoke. “ _And_ you smell good. You’re like the perfect man.”

Jon’s lips quirk. “Is that all it takes? Because I haven’t washed that hoodie in about a week. So if you’re telling me that my dirty laundry’s gonna get you to go out with me, you’ll save me a lot of loose change.”

Sansa’s heart jumps into her throat, but Jon just continues with his ministrations on her feet like he hadn’t just proposed a date in perhaps the most offhand possible fashion. It’s not much in the way of a grand romantic gesture, but Sansa finds that, since it’s Jon, she likes it even better. 

“You want to go out with me?” she asks, just to be sure he meant it. “Or is that the oncoming hypothermia talking?”

Jon shrugs. “I’m not that cold.”

Sansa can only gape at him more. When it seems as though all words are lost to her, Jon looks up from her feet and onto her blue-tinged lips.

“I’m running on about three hours’ sleep,” he admits, but continues so quickly that Sansa doesn’t have time to feel the sting of rejection, “otherwise I might be able to do this better. But I want to go out with you so bad that even Robb thinks I should just nut up and ask you already. Which, coming from the guy who once threatened to castrate Theon that time he mentioned how you’ve grown into your legs, is as sure a sign from the universe as I’ve ever known.”

When Sansa’s breath catches in her chest, it’s got nothing to do with the cold.

“Quite the speech,” she says through a smile. “You practice that in the mirror?”

“First thing I do every morning,” Jon quips.

His hand slides from her foot to her ankle, rubbing gentle circles and making Sansa’s skin tingle in entirely new ways. The lamplight reflects on his lenses and makes his eyes spark in the darkness. There are snowflakes melting in his hair, and Sansa can feel their gentle brush upon her lips as well.

“So…” Jon’s still grinning. His eyes flick from hers to her mouth again, and he’s tugging her closer by the hem of her flannel pyjama bottoms. “I know we’re plotting to kill my mates at the moment, but maybe we could table the details for our first date? Only I don’t think I’ve warmed you up properly yet.”

“I was just about to say,” Sansa agrees, and she tastes Jon’s relieved sigh when it breaks against her cheek and his nose nudges hers.

He chuckles again, a half-nervous sound, and she echoes it when her stiff fingers curl into his hair.

It’s three A.M. on a Wednesday in December and flurries are dancing on the breeze. There’s chatter all around them and the shouts of the snowball fight a few yards away, but they don’t hear a sound, save the hitch in their breaths when they intermingle. 

The air smells faintly of burnt lasagna, and Sansa’s never relished a good warm fire more than when it’s led to Jon kissing the melted snowflakes from her lips.


End file.
